Midnight Dances
by the ticking clock
Summary: Most people do not think of Natasha as a person. To them, she is a machine programmed only to kill. Clint Barton is not most people. Spoilers for Age of Ultron.


**Sorry if these guys are totally out of character, I had a lot of feelings after Age of Ultron**

Clint carries her home.

Without even asking, he lifts her out of the jet and drapes her arm over his shoulder, supporting the majority of her weight. He's started to think of this safe house as theirs-Natasha has her own room, next to the kids. She is the only one other than Fury who even knows about this place.

His other team mates are murmuring and confused around them. All furrowed brows and dark eyes. They are tense and terrified and trying so desperately not to show it. Tony's hands are curled into fists.

Natasha relaxes against him as they walk, head rolling back onto his shoulder. "Thanks," she whispers.

"Don't mention it," he says. Her skin is cool and clammy against his neck, and there is a catch in her voice that he hasn't heard in a long time.

She does smile though, when the kids ask about Aunty Nat, and scoops them up into her arms with a playful growl. Something is still wrong, though. The smile slips off her face when she thinks he isn't watching.

Laura notices too. She shoots Clint a concerned look and mouths, _what happened?_

He has no idea how to answer that.

* * *

Natasha appears in the hallway outside his bedroom around midnight. He sees her out of the corner of his eye, all shadowed features and brilliant hair in the dim lighting, and pecks Laura quickly on the cheek. "sorry," he whispers into her hair, "I'll be back later."

She wraps her arms around him, fitting perfectly against him as she always has, and says, "Take care of her, alright?"

Clint smiles. "Always do." He steps over to Natasha. She is trembling, her eyes dark and feral, hands curled into fists. "Hey Nat," he says, slowly, gently. "What's up?"

Without saying a word, she grabs him roughly by the arm and marches him down the hall way.

Clint does not ask questions.

She leads him down winding hallways, a steep set of stairs, and into his basement. It's a training room, really-complete with wall to wall matting, hanging targets, a rope and a rack of guns. Natasha flicks on a light with her free hand, then shoves him forward.

Clint stumbles into the center of the room, hands out.

Natasha faces him. In the brighter light of the training room he can see tears in her eyes. Settling into a fighting stance, she raises her fists, tosses her hair back, locks her jaw. "Dance with me?" she asks.

Years of partnership tell Clint that this is the only way he can help her right now, but he's in his goddamn pajamas and he's been in a firefight and he's _tired._ Natasha is going to destroy him.

But words are not going to get through to her, and there is a dangerous glint in her eye. She needs this, badly.

So he dips his head in a mock bow and smiles. "Of course," he says, and rolls his shoulders, working the tension from his muscles. "Shall we?"

Natasha runs at him.

They fall into an easy rhythm.

Duck, breath, jab, breath, kick, breath, block, breath. Spin, breath, backfist, breath, block, breath, right hook, breath.

It _is_ a dance, in every sense of the word.

They move in perfect synchronization, gliding across the training room floor, side stepping and orbiting around each other. At times they are so close he can taste her breath, feel the pull of her lungs under his hands. She spins away, only to return, her fists connecting with his face, her lip curled and her eyes dangerous. As she pulls back a fist to strike his head he catches her hand in his. "You're holding back," he says, as she stops short, chest heaving, face inches from his. "Don't. I can take it."

She smiles, and whirls away, sending a round house kick to his ribcage. He catches her leg and throws her to the floor. "Come on, Nat," he says. "That was sloppy."

Her head snaps up, hair flying back, and something changes in her expression. It slides into something calm and cool and calculating. Her eyes harden, pupils dilating. She breathes out in a sharp kiup and flips herself off the floor and into the air.

 _Shit._

She hits him, hard, and they tumble to the ground together, a mess of tangled limps and rushed breaths. She is on top, pinning him to the floor with both legs. Leaning down, she locks his shoulder, pinning his wrist to the ground and slowly dragging his arm towards her thigh.

"Enough!" Clint says as his shoulder screams in protest. He pounds the mat with his free hand. "Enough, Nat!" He reaches up and pulls her hair with his free hand when she shows no sign of stopping, a hard yank. She growls like an animal and releases his arm.

Arching his back, Clint throws her off. He stumbles to his feet, breathing hard.

Natasha remains on her knees, head bowed. She stares at her hands. "Sorry," she whispers hoarsely.

Clint shakes his head. "It's alright," wincing, he kneels down beside her. "What the hell did she show you?"

A visible tremor wracks her frame. Natasha clenches her eyes shut.

This is the Black Widow as few have ever seen her-kneeling on the floor of a training room, her hair wild, her face pale and drawn, her guard down. Most people do not think she is truly a person-that she is a weapon with no emotion, programmed only to kill.

Clint Barton is not most people.

"Hey," he says gently, reaching up to touch her shoulder gently. It is an encouragement when she doesn't pull away. "Hey, you didn't hurt anyone. You're safe at the house with me now, alright? We're safe."

She looks up at him. "Are we?" she whispers. "I think we're going to destroy ourselves."

"The Avengers?" Clint snorts. "We were always a time bomb, Nat."

A wry smile twists her lips. "Nothing lasts forever."

"Nope," he gives her shoulder a squeeze, throat tight. His breathing has steadied since their sparring match, but he knows he will be sore in the morning. "But I think our friendship is gonna last for a damn long time."

She sniffs, wiping at her eyes.

"You know why?" Clint says, shaking her a little. "Because we're Hawkeye and Black Widow. I'm Clint Barton, the idiot with a bow and arrow who's to stupid to die, and you're Natasha Romanoff, the idiot who keeps on saving me."

That gets a laugh out of her. It's a choking, raw sound, half a sob, and he pulls her into his arms.

Natasha folds in around him, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders, pressing her head down into his chest. Clint feels the vibrations of her shuddering breaths and the beat of her heart through his whole body.

"The Red Room," she finally whispers. "I saw the Red Room."

Clint's stomach twists. He swallows bile and presses a quick kiss to her hair. "I'm sorry," is all he can think to say.

She nods against his chest. "Well," she says, "it shouldn't upset me so much. I know I'm a monster."

"You listen to me, Natasha Romanoff," Clint growls in her ear. Anger pulses behind his eyes and he unconsciously tightens his grip on her shoulders, "You are _not_ a monster."

"I almost broke your shoulder," she whispers.

Clint rolls his eyes. "Please, Nat. That was nothing."

"Nothing-"

"Shh," he says, and pulls away, cupping her face in his hands. Her eyes are large and red with tears in her face. She looks up at him-vulnerable and raw. Suddenly he is reminded of an assassin staring down the shaft of his arrow. He remembers the slight tremble in her voice. He remembers Natasha unmade, Natasha seeping with the poison of the Red Room. "Come on, Nat," he says gently, "I've known you for years. I brought you back after I pulled you out of that hell. I know you better than you know yourself. _You are not a monster."_

She blinks. Then purses her lips and nods. "Okay," she says, then exhales shakily and stands, holding out a hand.

He takes it, and she pulls him up.

"Try and get some sleep," he says, gently.

She rolls her eyes. There is still a cautious fragility to her movements, but he is starting to see the Natasha he knows crawling out from behind the mask of the terrified girl in the Red Room. "You too, Barton."

Clint smiles and heads for the door. "Lights on or off?" he asks.

Natasha stands in the center of the room, hands at her sides, head bowed. "Off," she says.

As Clint flicks off the light, Natasha rises up onto her toes, arms extended.

He can feel the vibrations of her dancing as he walks from the room. Pausing by the closed door, he presses up against the cool metal and strains to hear.

Natasha's heels slap the floor as she leaps. She breathes out steadily as she kicks and twirls on her toes. She croons a Russian lullaby as she dances.

Closing his eyes, Clint stays outside the door for almost twenty minutes, until her dancing stops. She sits on the training room floor and cries.

Clint taps morse code against the door. _It's going to be okay._

The floor vibrates under his bare feet as she stands and walks to the door. Clint jumps back as she throws it open.

It's too dark to really see her, but he can picture her scowl.

"Nice dancing," he quips.

Natasha sighs, grabs his hands, and finger spells into his palm, _go to sleep Barton._

Clint laughs, and when Natasha does too-her guffaws a soft, breathy exhale, Clint feels a weight lift off his shoulders.

They are going to be okay.


End file.
